


Imagine Me and You

by obbel



Category: Latin American Celebrities RPF, Reggaetón Music RPF
Genre: AU, Amnesia, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Future Fic, M/M, Reggaetón RPF - Freeform, mention of miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26161348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbel/pseuds/obbel
Summary: Balvin wakes up after an accident thinking it’s still 2019.
Relationships: J Balvin/Maluma
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in two weeks mostly on my phone. I hope you cannot tell.

"Come on!" Balvin yells to Carolina. She’s not too far behind him, but he knows from experience he can’t let up an inch or she’ll overtake him. He looks at the landscape ahead of him, focusing on the tree that marks the finish line, growing ever closer. He’s going to win, and he announces as much, yelling loudly to Carolina. He expects a snappy comeback or at least some kind of response.

She doesn’t respond, though, and Balvin twists around to make sure that she’s okay. He doesn’t see the rock in the road.

The bike lurches, tossing Balvin like a ragdoll, and for a moment, he’s flying, weightless, soaring through the air, untouchable. Then he remembers he doesn’t have wings, and the ground speeds up to meet him, reality crashing back into him with a vengeance.

He wakes up in the hospital.

His parents and Carolina are in the room, and they all breathe a sigh of relief when he opens his eyes. There’s a young girl there as well, sitting on a chair in the corner, but Balvin doesn’t immediately recognize her.

"You’re awake!" his mom says, rushing over to his bed. She grabs his hand, stroking the back with her thumb, trying not to cry. "Thank God you’re awake."

He pats her arm with his hand, noticing the IV sticking out of his veins. His dad grips his shoulder with one hand. With the other, he's on his phone, sending a message.

Carolina comes up to him next, with the girl in tow. "Jose," she says softly. "I’m so sorry!"

Balvin frowns at her, and his mom turns to hug Carolina. "It’s not your fault," she tells Carolina.

"What happened?" he asks.

Carolina is crying quietly into their mom’s shoulder, and she rocks them both back and forth.

"You had an accident, Tío Jose," the girl says. Balvin turns to look at her. She looks like she’s around ten years old. "You were racing bikes with my mommy."

He blinks. "Samy?"

She smiles at him, oblivious to his confusion. He shakes it off, chalking it up to the light of the hospital, his disorientation. Carolina just has her dressed up, he thinks. There’s no way she really looks as old as she does.

She goes back to her chair, playing with some kind of tablet, and his family closes the gap around him so he can’t see her anymore. His mom asks how he feels, and Balvin says he’s fine, although he has a headache, and his body is sore.

"You were in a coma," she tells him, and he’s stunned. He knew he’d taken a fall, but he didn’t realize it was that bad.

"We’re glad you’re back," his dad says, gripping his shoulder again. Then he glances up, noticing that the door is opening. Maluma hurries inside, and Balvin’s dad waves him over.

Balvin looks at them, confused, wondering why he’s here and why it seems like his dad invited him. The thought occurs to him that Maluma came because of the song they’re recording, but that seems unlikely.

"I came as fast as I could," Maluma says, speed walking over to him. "I just went home to check on the dogs, and your dad told me. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up."

Balvin stares blankly at him. His words register but don’t connect. They don’t mean anything that he understands.

"Where’s Valentina?" Balvin asks.

Maluma pales. "What?"

"Valentina? Is she here?"

Maluma looks genuinely shocked. "Are you joking?" he asks, voice quivering slightly.

Balvin looks at him, equally confused. "No," he says. "I know we had a fight, but she should be here."

Maluma is at a loss for words, so Balvin’s mom steps in. She says, "Carito, can you go find the doctor please?" and ushers everyone outside. She comes back into the room, though, sitting next to Balvin on the bed. She holds his hand again, closing her eyes.

When she opens them, she looks pained. "Hijo," she says. "You and Valentina have not been together for a long time. You found someone else." Her eyes dart to the door.

"Him?" Balvin asks, incredulous. "No."

She nods her head. Balvin is about to ask more questions, but the door opens again.

"Hello," the doctor says, striding over and holding a hand out to shake, which Balvin does. "I’m Dr. Espinosa."

"What happened to me?" Balvin asks immediately, not bothering to introduce himself. Dr. Espinosa already knows, he figures.

"You had a pretty bad accident," the doctor says. Balvin is about to respond, but the doctor talks over him, "your helmet saved your life, but you sustained serious brain trauma."

Balvin goes cold. He doesn’t feel like a brain trauma victim. He just has a headache.

"Am I going to be okay? Can I still walk?" He starts to panic, wondering if he’s paralyzed and no one told him. He tries to stand up, but the doctor stops him. His mom puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Woah," Dr. Espinosa says. "Easy. Your mobile capabilities are just fine, as far as we can tell. Try wiggling your toes."

He does, and he heaves a sigh of relief. His mom squeezes his arm.

"There you go," the doctor says, patting him on the shoulder. "Now, I do have some questions for you."

Balvin nods. As long as he can walk, he can handle questions.

"What’s your name?" Dr. Espinosa asks.

"Jose. Jose Álvaro Osorio Balvin." He knows this is true like he knows what color the walls of the room are.

"What do you do for a living?"

He looks at the doctor, wondering if these are trick questions. "I’m a musician?" The doctor nods, and he feels a surge of relief. He’s not damaged. He’s perfectly fine.

"What year is it?"

"Two thousand nineteen?" 

―

They keep him in the hospital a few more hours, running tests and hooking him up to various machines. They don't let him sleep, a nurse coming in to poke at him whenever he tries to drift off, and they keep his guests outside, telling them not to interfere.

After what seems like an eternity staring at the ceiling and listening to the beep beep beep of the machine next to his bed, Balvin is discharged into Maluma’s care with instructions to take it easy. The doctor assures him that his memory will return, and Balvin does his best to believe it.

His family comes back to say goodbye, and he expects them to protest, to say that he should come home with them, his _family._ But they don't. There's a lot of hugging and crying, and they tell him to call if he needs anything, and then he is left alone with Maluma.

"You ready to go home?" Maluma asks him, and he can only nod.

He stares at Maluma out of the corner of his eye the whole ride, wondering if this is some strange practical joke set up by his dad. It’s playing out too long, in his opinion.

Maluma tries to make conversation, but he gives up when he realizes that Balvin is giving him non-answers, nodding along in all the right places without registering anything that Maluma says. Maluma reaches his hand out, meaning to touch him, but Balvin flinches, jerking away.

"Sorry," Maluma says, taking his hand back and placing it on the gearshift, jiggling it back and forth as they idle at a light.

"It's fine. I'm sorry, too. I know we're, uh, together." He feels guilty for the way he lets the disbelief creep into his voice. He feels even worse when he sneaks a glance at Maluma's face. He pulls out his phone for a distraction, but it's locked, and it doesn't respond to his usual password.

It's also not the phone he remembers having. It's one large screen, no buttons or anything. It lights up when he moves it, January 10 staring him in the face. He's relieved that the year doesn't show, but the relief is short-lived when he notices the background photo. It's him and Maluma.

He tries several passwords, but none of them unlock the phone, and neither does his fingerprint.

"Here," Maluma says, holding out his hand when they stop again. Balvin gives him the phone, and he unlocks it with his thumb.

"Why doesn't it work for me?" Balvin asks him.

"It was a joke," Maluma says. He holds his own phone out, and Balvin hesitantly presses his thumb against the bottom of the screen. It unlocks.

"Oh," Balvin says. "What kind of joke?"

"We were just messing with..." Maluma trails off, not saying who. He focuses on shifting the gears instead, accelerating. "Never mind. I'll switch it back for you when we get home. But your password is one four zero two."

"Thanks," Balvin says, and then he busies himself with his phone. There are apps he doesn't recognize and a lot of missed calls and messages. He ignores them and opens his photos to see himself performing at shows he doesn’t remember, traveling to places he hasn’t been to, kissing a person he’s only ever considered a friend. He figures out how to lock his phone and turns it over, choosing to stare out the window the rest of the ride, stomach sinking as he realizes that they're not going to his house.

When they pull into Maluma’s place, it becomes overwhelmingly clear that he lives there as well. His car is in the garage, and when Maluma opens the door, a herd of dogs comes running to greet them, tails wagging furiously.

Bonnie and Clyde he recognizes immediately. Then there are two golden retrievers who Maluma tells him are named Paz and Felicidad. Three smaller dogs, who might be Boston terriers or French bulldogs hang back, not as interested in the comings and goings of their humans.

Balvin turns to look at Maluma. "Enzo?" he asks quietly, scared of the answer.

Maluma gestures towards an old, gray dog, hobbling slowly towards them, tail swishing from side to side lethargically. Balvin drops down to the floor, embracing Enzo, who slobbers happily on him. He hugs Enzo’s neck, not wanting to let go. Enzo, at least, is a familiar presence, even if he’s aged too much too quickly.

"Are you hungry? I’ll make us something to eat," Maluma says, not waiting for an answer, leaving him to pet Enzo’s ears.

Balvin stays with Enzo as long as he can, and the other dogs start to circle around him, smelling his shoes. Finally, he picks himself up off the floor, investigating the house he apparently lives in with Maluma.

It matches the mental blueprint he has from the few times he’s been over. It’s neat and orderly, professionally cleaned. There are a lot of plants. It’s a nice space, but it certainly doesn’t feel like home.

Balvin walks around, looking at the grand piano and the pile of blankets and pillows on the floor when his eyes catch on nine gilded gramophones displayed on a shelf. He walks over to look closer. Five are his, Latin Grammys he clearly remembers winning and one he doesn't. Three are Maluma's, for songs and albums he's never heard of. The other one he picks up cautiously. On the plaque are his name and the title of an album he hasn't released. Below that says "Best Latin Pop or Urban Album."

He sets the trophy down carefully, movement in his peripheral vision catching his attention. Balvin turns to see Maluma approaching cautiously, as if he was a wounded animal, which isn't an entirely inaccurate description.

"I won a Grammy," he says.

"You won several Grammys," Maluma says. "So did I." He’s smiling a little, and Balvin knows there's a joke or a story or maybe just good-natured competition behind it, but he can't make himself smile back. Maluma's face returns to neutral. "Dinner is almost ready, if you’re hungry," he says.

Balvin nods, realizing that he could eat a whole cow. He follows Maluma to the kitchen, a couple of paces behind.

Maluma is a good cook. Balvin knew he liked to barbecue, remembers going over to his house several times for parties, always full of people and noise and good food. But it's different being served a regular meal. There's an intimacy to doing something so routine, so unpretentious. Maluma is not trying to impress him, although he is impressed by how quickly Maluma can slice and chop, toss the food in the air and catch it in the same pan. He doesn't look at Balvin as he does it, though. He isn't showing off, just being efficient, getting the food to the table quickly for someone who is hungry. It's the kind of thing Maluma would do for family, Balvin thinks, and then he remembers that they are family, apparently.

Dinner is awkward, there’s no denying it. Balvin inhales his food, and then all he wants to do is ask questions. Maluma endures the interrogation gracefully, but Balvin can see how uncomfortable he is.

"So we’re really together?" Balvin asks him, pushing his empty plate away. He might as well cut straight to the chase.

Maluma, of course, has his mouth full. He chews as quickly as possible and swallows. "Yeah," he says, nodding.

"For how long?"

"Two years in February."

Balvin blinks. He was expecting less time than that, but considering that they live together, maybe it makes sense.

"When did I move in with you?"

"About a year ago."

Balvin nods, then it occurs to him to ask, "do I still have my house?"

Maluma shakes his head no. "You sold it."

"Oh," he says. He can’t hide the disappointment in his voice, even though Maluma looks sad when he says it. Balvin pretends he doesn't see, his need for information vastly outweighing his need to be polite. "What happened between us, I mean, Valentina and I?"

Maluma glances down at his plate before answering, "you got divorced."

Balvin’s eyebrows shoot up. "We were married?"

"Yeah." Maluma clearly doesn’t want to be having this conversation, but Balvin doesn’t care.

"When? How long were we married? Why did we get divorced?"

Maluma looks at him, and he doesn't answer right away. He's studying Balvin's face. Balvin lets the impatience seep into his expression. He knows he's being rude, but he wants an answer, _now._ Finally, Maluma says, "you were married for six months. You got divorced in two thousand twenty-two." He rubs his thumb in between his eyebrows. "You should probably talk to Valentina about this."

"Okay," Balvin says, and then he lets Maluma change the subject.

"The doctor says we should do things to try and jog your memory," Maluma says. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I remember Valentina left me."

Maluma sighs. "Oh," is all he says. "I'm sorry." Then he resumes eating, letting an uncomfortable silence settle in. Balvin considers getting up from the table, but he doesn't know where he would go. Instead, he waits for Maluma to finish eating, trying to hide his impatience.

"You feeling okay?" Maluma asks him when he’s done, and Balvin almost brushes him off with a lie about he's fine. But he remembers that Maluma is someone who supposedly cares about him.

"It’s a lot to take in," he says, which is about the most diplomatic answer he can manage, even if it’s still superficial bullshit.

Maluma nods, and he looks like he wants to reach out and touch, but he stops himself. "If you need anything, just let me know," he says. "I’ll make up the guest room, if you want to sleep there." His voice betrays him, letting Balvin know how badly he wants him to say no. But he can't. It's too strange.

"Thanks," he says instead, and Maluma nods before getting up to take both their plates and putting them in the sink.

Balvin runs away while Maluma is cleaning up. He goes outside to look at the stars. They're beautiful from the balcony, and he tries not to hate them for remaining unchanged while his whole life has turned upside down.

Maluma leaves him alone except for when he pokes his head out the door to say that the guest room is ready.

"Thanks," Balvin says. "For all of this."

Maluma shakes his head. "Of course," he says, "it’s no problem. I―" he cuts himself off, and Balvin is grateful. He says thanks again and ducks past Maluma, not entirely sure where he's going, but also not caring. He just wants to be alone.

His memory of Maluma's house is good enough that he guesses correctly where the guest room is. He closes the door behind him and falls onto the bed, head in his hands. He stares at his feet through his fingers. He's sitting in the dark. He didn't bother to turn the light on.

He should sleep. It’s late, and he's exhausted from being used as a lab rat all day, but instead, he calls Valentina, or at least he calls the last number he remembers for her. She’s not in his contacts anymore. The brightness of his phone hurts his eyes, making his ever-present headache worse, and he closes them, waiting as the phone rings. There's no response, though. She either changed her number, or she’s not picking up.

Balvin collapses on the bed. He smacks it with his fist in frustration, and he's just about to start crying when there's a knock on the door. It's Maluma, of course.

"Jose?" he asks cautiously. "Can I come in?"

"No," Balvin tells him, barely managing to keep his voice level.

"Okay," Maluma says. He also sounds like he’s about to cry. "I’m here, you know, if you change your mind."

Balvin doesn’t respond, and he waits until he hears Maluma's receding footsteps until he lets himself cry long and hard into the pillow until he falls asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, he wakes up late, probably the latest he’s woken up in years. When he goes downstairs, Maluma is sitting in the living room, waiting for him to get up, he realizes.

"Good morning," Maluma says.

Balvin nods back.

"Are you hungry?"

He is, but he doesn’t want Maluma to cook more food for him, to hover around and take care of him like he tried to do yesterday. He doesn't dislike Maluma, but it's easier to not have him around, a constant, living reminder of how little he knows about his own life. He is still half-convinced that this is some strange joke.

"I just want some coffee, please," he says. They were never this formal when they were friends, but he doesn't want to invite any more intimacy into their exchanges.

"Sure, it’s over there."

Balvin eyes the coffee machine. It looks like a Keurig with a huge screen on the front, but he can't figure out how it works. There's no place to put the coffee pod, and pressing the wrong option makes hot water spray out onto the floor.

"Fuck," he says, smacking the countertop because anger is his only choice. He is not going to start crying again over a coffee machine. He blinks furiously and looks around for a towel.

Maluma appears at his side, and Balvin closes his eyes, breathing deeply and slowly. "Hey," Maluma says when he opens them again. "Let me show you. It’s not so complicated."

They successfully make one cup of coffee, Maluma a patient instructor of his stupid, futuristic coffee robot. Balvin does his best to remember the process so he won't have to ask again. Maluma smiles at him when the coffee finishes brewing. Balvin tries to smile back.

"Thanks," he says. "I’m going to call Valentina now."

Maluma startles like he's been hit, but he recovers quickly, face forced into a neutral expression as he says, "okay. I’ll give you some privacy."

Maluma goes downstairs, leaving Balvin with the whole kitchen to himself. He sits at the counter with his coffee, praying that Valentina will answer his call this time.

"Hello?"

"Valen?" Balvin breathes her name in a sigh of relief. "It’s me, uh, it’s Jose."

She is clearly surprised. "Jose? It’s been a long time."

"Yeah, Valentina, I, listen, do you have time to talk? It’s really important."

There’s a pause, and he holds his breath.

"I have to get going pretty soon. Paulo’s game is coming up. What’s going on?"

Balvin doesn’t know who Paulo is. He almost asks, but instead, he says, "can I FaceTime you? I really just need to see you. It’s an emergency."

"What’s going on? Are you okay?"

"No, I’m not okay," he says, and he switches the call to video before she can hang up.

"Jose, what’s going on?" Valentina asks for the third time.

Balvin can only stare at her. She looks mostly the same, although her hair is blonder than he expects it to be. She’s still tall and thin, all long lines and sharp angles. She’s perched in front of a hotel vanity, doing her makeup, and she has on an ill-fitting Barcelona jersey, tucked into the front of her pants to create an elegant drape with the extra fabric.

"Jose," she, putting down the brush in her hand. "You’re scaring me. Are you okay?"

"No," he says, putting a hand over his face. "I had an accident. I don’t remember anything."

Valentina’s mouth drops open, and the tone of her voice shoots upwards. "What? What happened? What do you mean you don’t remember anything?"

"The last thing I remember was when you left."

"When we got divorced?" It still hits him hard when she says that.

"No, before we were even married. When you went to Greece."

Valentina’s hand covers her mouth, but he can still hear her gasp. "That was," she pauses to think, "six years ago!"

He doesn’t say that for him it was the other day. He doesn’t know what to say to her. He just wants her to speak, to hear her familiar accent tell him that this is all a bad dream, that she's gone for the moment, traveling in Europe, but she'll be home soon, and then everything will go back to normal.

Instead, she asks again, "what happened?"

"I had a motocross accident. I woke up in the hospital, and the last thing I remember is... that."

"Oh," she says, distraught. "Are you okay? Besides the amnesia."

"I'm not paralyzed, if that's what you mean," he says. "But I’m not okay. I don’t remember my own life. I live in a different house with a different person. I have eight dogs. We got married? We got divorced? What happened between us?" He tries not to get hysterical, but it’s hard.

"Oh my God, Jose.” She looks at him, a mix of pity and confusion.

"Look," he says, sighing. "I just want to know what happened. Can you just tell me, please?"

Her eyes are wide as she says, "it's a long story. I'll summarize." She pauses, thinking, and he waits with bated breath. Finally, she says, "we got back together after Greece. And it wasn’t great, I’ll be honest. We broke up again in the winter. But then coronavirus happened, and we were together all the time in quarantine. I guess that helped us figure some things out."

"Coronavirus?"

"Oh my God, you don’t remember."

"No," Balvin frowns at her. "I don't remember."

"Sorry," she says, biting her lip. "It was a disaster. The world shut down for a couple of months, and everyone had to stay at home in quarantine. We were quarantined together, but you still got the virus. You almost died."

Balvin stares at her. She keeps talking.

"We were okay after that, mostly. You really wanted to be a family. So when I got pregnant, we decided to get married."

His jaw nearly hits the floor. "You got pregnant? We have a child?"

Valentina shakes her head. "No, I miscarried. Early. We didn’t even announce it to anyone."

Balvin tries to wrap his brain around these events. He fails. "So what happened then?"

"It wasn’t what I wanted. The miscarriage was a blessing in disguise for me. I wasn’t ready to be a mom. But you were so set on being a dad. So we got divorced." She says it like it’s a simple fact. And maybe, for her, years in the past, it is, no more emotionally impactful than the fall of Rome or the death of Napoleon. But for him, it feels like discovering that the world is flat by being tossed over the edge.

He sits, gaping at her.

"It was a mutual decision," she says. "We’re better off as friends." 

"I don’t understand."

"I’m sorry," she says. "Really. I hope that was helpful to you. I have to go, though. You can call me after the match. I’m on Spanish time."

"Okay," he says before she hangs up.

Balvin sits in shock, processing. But it’s impossible to make sense of everything he’s just learned.

Suddenly, he doesn't want to be alone anymore. He goes and seeks out Maluma, who is running on the treadmill downstairs. He has his music on, loud. It’s his own voice singing, but Balvin doesn’t recognize the song.

Balvin hovers in his peripheral vision until Maluma notices him. He slows the treadmill down to a walk.

"Hi," Maluma says, breathing heavily. "Did you call Valentina?"

"Yeah," Balvin says, head still spinning. "She’s in Spain." That’s the least important thing he learned from the conversation, but he isn’t sure how much Maluma knows, or how much he wants to share.

"Right," Maluma says, eyes darting to the jerseys hanging on the wall above them. "I heard she was dating some footballer now." His tone is light, conversational.

"She was pregnant," Balvin says, ignoring the small talk. "It was mine."

Maluma pauses the treadmill, coming to a halt and turning to look at Balvin straight on.

"Yeah, you told me she lost the baby. I’m sorry."

"I was going to be a dad."

Maluma looks pained. He reaches across the handrail towards him, but then he remembers himself and folds his arms on top instead. He says, "do you want to talk about it? I don’t know too much besides what you told me before, but—"

He doesn’t get to finish before Balvin starts crying. Maluma reaches for him again, and Balvin lets him. In a second, Maluma is off the treadmill, grabbing him. Balvin collapses into him, sobbing ugly, uncontrollable, slobbery tears into his shirt. He doesn't care that it's sweaty and gross. He doesn’t care that it’s Maluma holding him. He just cries, for all that he’s lost and all that he doesn’t understand.

Maluma talks to him quietly, saying that it's going to be okay, everything will be okay. Balvin doesn't believe it, but he doesn't have the energy to contradict him.

—

Balvin spends the rest of the day hiding in Maluma's study, partly out of embarrassment and partly because he’s on a mission to remember the last six years of his life. He waves off Maluma's offer of lunch, saying he'll eat something later, and locks himself inside.

He calls Valentina again, after googling if football matches are still ninety minutes long. They are, and she picks up his call. She tells him the story again, with more details, but it still doesn't click. He almost asks her to repeat it a third time, but he's not that much of a masochist. He lets her go, and she says to call her anytime and to let her know when he gets his memory back. Balvin thanks her for saying when and not if.

After he hangs up, he sits with his head in his hands for a long time. He tries to concentrate, to find the memories somewhere in the depths of his brain, but try as he might, they won't come. He lies his head down on his arms and breathes as deeply and as slowly as he can. When he feels a little steadier, he turns on Maluma's computer, hoping the internet can provide him with some answers.

He starts with the things he does remember, watching several videos of Lollapalooza, and even though he feels like it was just a month ago, the comments are all time-stamped six years ago. He sighs, then clicks on the next recommended video, a clip from the VMAs. He watches himself and Bad Bunny in their oversized costumes, smiling when he realizes "tu pierdo no tiempas" is coming up.

He lets the next video autoplay, and soon finds himself sucked into a black hole, watching acceptance speeches for awards he doesn't remember winning. He supposes it's a good thing there are a lot of videos, but the joy of knowing that his career hasn't tanked is overwhelmed by the fact that he doesn't remember most of it. Balvin watches the video of him accepting his Grammy three times, but it means nothing to him. He’s watching a stranger wear his face and use his voice, and the happiness he feels is impersonal, the same way he’d feel if any Latino artist won an Anglo Grammy.

He watches his music videos next, starting with _Colores_ , then _La Familia 2,_ then _Sentimientos._ He knows the lyrics to some songs, written before his accident, but the majority are new to him. He can pick up the choruses easily enough, though, and he sings along to himself. He’s happy to note that Sky still produces for him, too.

Balvin closes the last video and breathes deeply, then types his own name into Google. The first page is all articles about his accident, and he clicks on one with morbid curiosity. It's short, sparse on the details, only saying that he was admitted to the hospital following the accident, then released to recuperate "at the home in Medellín he shares with fellow musician Juan Luis Londoño, better known as Maluma." Balvin blinks and reads the last part again.

Shit, he thinks before googling both their names. He sets the results to filter chronologically, and watches as the headlines change from speculation on how much they dislike each other to speculation on what the exact nature of their relationship is.

He clicks on an interview with a leading title. He sees himself on camera, dodging the interviewer’s questions about his love life, his sexuality. On-screen, Balvin smiles enigmatically and says, "there’s a lot of love in my life right now, and I’m grateful for that. It’s beautiful when you open yourself up to all the colors of the rainbow, you know?"

Then there’s a shift in the narrative. There's still speculation, the kind of are-they-aren't-they that drives tabloid sales, but the assumption eventually becomes yes, they are. Balvin looks at pictures of them together in public, and they’re not incriminating, just hugging, laughing, nothing they didn’t do when they were friends. But there are a lot of them, more than he could ever imagine, and they post together sometimes, the same photos showing up on both accounts, smiling at the camera and looking like two people who are happy, like two people who are in love.

—

He curls up on the couch in the room, eyes closed, trying again to order his brain into giving up its memories, to get better by sheer force of will. He's just as unsuccessful this time as he has been all the previous times, and his headache, while always at the edges of his consciousness, is starting to worsen by the second.

He sneaks out of the study on the hunt for some painkillers. Maluma is sitting with his laptop in the living room. He looks up when he hears Balvin's footsteps.

"Feeling okay?" he asks, and Balvin shakes his head. Maluma frowns, concern immediately coloring his face. "What's wrong?"

"Headache," Balvin says.

Maluma gets up, walking over to him, but at the last minute, he turns, getting a glass out of the cabinet and filling it with water. He picks up a bottle of pills as well and hands both over.

"Thank you," Balvin says, and he swallows a couple.

"Sure. You need anything else?"

"No. Thank you."

"You should eat something," Maluma says, voice the same forced-neutral tone that Balvin heard this morning.

"I'm okay," Balvin says. "I'm going to bed."

Maluma glances at the clock. It's barely seven, but he doesn't say anything, just nods.

Balvin grabs a couple of apples on his way out, more for Maluma's benefit than anything else, but he bites into one on the way back to his room, and he polishes off both of them shortly after he shuts the door. He tosses the cores into the trash can and lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His head still hurts, but he pulls his phone out to click through his messages. He ignores social media completely, leaving it up to his team to deal with, and he replies to no one, only taking note of who he’s still in contact with, who is close enough to care.

He gets tired of that pretty quickly and starts looking up things he thinks he should know about the state of the world: is it still called planet Earth, have they figured out the cure for cancer, are they still referring to reggaetón as "urbano."

He looks up Colombia’s stats in the World Cup (qualified) and the Copa América (third place last year). Then he looks up Paulo Dybala just to hurt himself. 

He gives up then, putting his phone away and closing his eyes. When he falls asleep, he dreams about snow. He's chasing Maluma on a toboggan, and even though Maluma is on foot, he outruns him easily. Balvin follows him through the mountains, climbing higher and higher around twisting corners until they reach the top. Maluma stops running, turns around to say something to him, but Balvin drives through him, right off the side of the cliff. As he falls, he looks for Maluma, but he's gone.

When he lands, there’s no more snow. He has a baby in his arms. The baby screams, and he doesn't know how to make it stop. Her shrieks are louder than anything he has ever heard, and her tiny body convulses with the effort. He worries she’ll tear herself in half. He tries to quiet her, rocking her back and forth and telling her that everything will be okay, but she doesn't listen to him. She wails in agony, her mouth becoming a black hole, growing wider and wider. Balvin covers it with his hand, and his palm is big enough to smother her whole face, but the blackness keeps growing, swallowing his hand, then his arm, then disappearing him completely. He's surrounded by darkness, alone, but the yelling doesn't stop. He tells her to be quiet, that they can't wake anyone up, can't wake up, wake up.

"Wake up!" someone says, shaking him. "Jose, wake up! It's a nightmare. You're yelling."

Balvin's eyes fly open. He's covered in sweat, and Maluma is crouched next to him, holding his shoulders.

"You’re okay," Maluma says. "I’m here."

"The baby. The baby! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry."

"Shh." Maluma rubs his back in soothing circles. "It’s okay. Go back to sleep."


	3. Chapter 3

Balvin wakes up the next morning. He doesn't remember where he is, but then he looks to his left and sees Maluma asleep on the floor.

He eases himself out of bed, trying not to make too much noise. He starts to walk to the door, but then he turns back, grabs the pillow off the bed, and tucks it under Maluma’s head. He covers him with the blanket, too.

Balvin goes into the kitchen and manages to get the stupid coffee robot to obey him. As he drinks his coffee, he looks in the refrigerator for something to eat, and when he finishes breakfast, he leaves a note on the fridge.

_Going to see family. Back later._

The doctor didn’t tell him not to drive, but he figures it’s probably not a wise decision. Besides, his head still hurts, and he doesn’t know where he keeps his car keys.

He calls a car, glad to know Uber is still around. He watches the scenery fly by the window as they drive, but that reminds him of the accident. He closes his eyes instead, drifting off until the driver tells him he’s arrived.

He knocks on the front door, hoping that Mona has not moved in the last six years. She opens the door, and his eyes go immediately to her stomach, sticking out well past the rest of her.

"Jose!" she says, throwing her arms around him and hugging him as close as she can in her current state. "I'm so sorry, I would have gone to see you sooner, but, you know." She gestures at her belly. "Come inside, come on."

He follows her in, dodging a toddler who waddles up to them, toy in hand. The toddler hides behind Mona's leg until she scoops him up, balancing him on her hip as she walks him over to the playpen in the living room. Then she points at the sofa, ordering Balvin to sit down and asking if he wants anything to drink. He declines.

"How’s Juan? He didn’t want to come?"

Balvin shakes his head no, and Mona raises an eyebrow at him. "Are things okay between you two?" 

"No," he says. "I mean, no. I don’t know. It’s not a big deal. But don’t worry about it."

Mona purses her lips. "I’m very worried about you," she says. "Caro told me you had an accident. Really, I'm sorry. I should have come to see you."

"No," Balvin says again. "It's okay. Mona, you're pregnant!"

"Pregnant, not home-bound," she says, starting to wave him off, but then she narrows her eyes, registering his tone. "Wait a minute. Jose, what happened? I've been pregnant for eight months."

"I don't remember," he says. "I have amnesia, I guess. It's still two thousand nineteen for me."

Mona gasps audibly. "Carolina didn't mention that!"

"She probably didn't want to worry you. Or, I mean," he pauses as the thought occurs to him, "we're still friends, right?"

Mona swats at him with a baby blanket. "Are we still friends," she scoffs. "I've been putting up with you for twenty years. You're stuck with me. Or I'm stuck with you, more like it."

Balvin can't help but smile. Mona leans in closer, hugging him sideways. He closes his eyes, willing himself not to cry.

"Oh my God, Jose, I'm so sorry."

"Stop, Mona. I'm tired of hearing that. It's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault. It's just fu―" Mona elbows him. "Sorry. It’s messed up, but it’s no one’s fault."

He leans his head on her shoulder, and she squeezes him tightly. "What's the last thing you remember?" she asks quietly.

"Valentina."

Mona winces. "Which time?"

"Greece."

"I'm sorry."

He cuts his eyes at her, and she puts her hands up defensively. He sighs, collapsing against the sofa.

"We were going to have a baby, she told me, but she lost it. We got married, we got divorced, I almost died, and I don't remember any of it. I have a boyfriend now." He laughs humorlessly.

Mona turns to look at him, eyes full of concern. "Oh," she says. "I'm so sorry."

He doesn't tell her to stop apologizing again. He just leans back into her, lets her rub his back as he cries. Mona's toddler notices them, and he starts crying, too. Balvin looks over at him, and the absurdity of his life cuts through his sadness. He laughs, even as he’s still crying, then inhales hard, trying to pull himself together. He stands up, walking over to the playpen, then turns back to Mona. "Can I?" he asks, gesturing at the crying toddler.

She nods, and Balvin picks him up. He cries harder, reaching away from Balvin and towards his mom, and Balvin dutifully carries him over to Mona. The toddler hugs her, sobbing into her belly as she comforts him, trying to hide her smile.

"What's wrong, cariño?" she asks. "What's wrong?"

He splutters, a combination of baby-talk and slobber that Balvin can't decipher, but that Mona understands perfectly. "It's okay," she says. "Sometimes adults feel sad, too."

That seems to pacify him, and Mona picks him up and puts him back in the playpen, suggesting that he play with his blocks. He seizes on her idea, stacking them up only to knock them down with brutal enthusiasm.

"He's got the right idea," Balvin says, wiping at his eyes. "Cry and destroy things."

Mona shushes him. "He's two. You're past that stage."

"Maybe," Balvin says. "Only some days."

Mona pats him on the back again.

"What’s his name?" Balvin asks, looking at Mona’s son again. He’s gnawing happily on the corner of a block.

"Jose Álvaro," Mona says without missing a beat. Balvin’s jaw drops, but she doesn’t see it. She stands up carefully, and walks over to the playpen, taking the blocks away. When he protests, she offers a stuffed animal instead. That too goes into his mouth. Mona sighs and makes her way back to the couch.

Balvin stares at her hard, then narrows an eye. "You’re kidding."

She grins at him. "Yes," she says. "I love you, but not that much. His name is Santiago, after his dad."

"That was mean," Balvin says.

Mona giggles. "I’m not going to get the opportunity again."

"You sure he’s not mine?" Balvin asks.

She rolls her eyes at him.

"I’m serious!" he says. "We never backslid? Look, he kind of has my nose. I always thought you were the one for me." He’s joking, but there’s a grain of truth to his words. Mona has been one of the precious few constants in his life. Seeing her settled down, happily married with children evokes strange emotions in him. Jealousy is part of it, but mostly he feels loss, an aching nostalgia for a future that might have been his.

Mona smiles at her stomach, then leans over and squeezes his hand. "I’ll always be here for you," she says gently. "But you and I were over a long time ago. Before Valentina, even."

"I know," he sighs. "I didn’t mean it."

"You’ll be fine," Mona tells him. Then she looks down beside her. Her phone is buzzing, and she smiles a funny smile.

"What’s up?" Balvin asks her, and she shows him the screen.

_Is Jose with you? He said he went to see family but caro says he’s not with her or a &a and hes not answering his phone. _

"So it’s really true," Balvin says, sighing.

Mona types her reply, then looks at him, surprised. "You don’t believe it?"

"How can I?" he asks. "It doesn’t make any sense. I want to be with someone I can have kids with, you know, be a family. Like you. Well, not _you,_ but..." He trails off, sighing again.

Mona considers him for a moment, face almost disapproving. Then her expression softens. "I forgot how you used to be," she says. 

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing," Mona says, shaking her head. She touches her stomach, and Balvin watches her hands make smooth circles over her shirt. "There’s more than one way to be a family," she says eventually.

He scoffs. "I guess."

"Really," Mona says, pausing her hands. She looks up at him. "I shouldn’t be the one to tell you this," she says slowly. Balvin blinks. "But he’s not your boyfriend. You asked him to marry you."

"No," he says. "You’re messing with me again."

"I’m not."

He puts his hand over his face. "I don’t even know what to say."

"You don’t have to say anything. Just be kind. He cares about you, and you care about him, too. Look," she says. "We were all surprised when you told us. Me and your mom especially. I think your dad had some idea." Mona frowns slightly, remembering, then shrugs and continues, "but I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time. Not since we were kids."

Balvin considers everything she’s told him, chews and swallows it, and tries to let it digest, but it claws its way back up his throat, acidic, bitter. "I still don’t understand," he starts, and she stops him.

"You don’t have to understand. Sometimes it’s easier to just accept things for what they are."

"But―"

"Listen," Mona says, and the tone of her voice makes him close his mouth and obey. He realizes it’s the same tone she used with Santiago when she took away his blocks. "I know it’s hard for you. But running away isn’t going to make it better. Have you talked to him about any of this? Have you talked to your therapist? Have you talked to anyone but your teenage girlfriend?"

He shakes his head, and Mona fixes him with the same look she’s always given him when she’s right. "Okay," he says. "You’re right."

Mona laughs at him. "It’s not about being right, Jose. But I am right," she says. "I love you. You’re going to be fine."

"What do you know about brain injuries?"

"More than you! I did a piece on the neurosurgery ward at San Vicente."

Balvin smiles. "You win. Can I ask you a favor?"

"No."

He rolls his eyes, and Mona grins at him. "Can you call me a ride home?" he asks. "I think I left my phone in the Uber."

Mona shakes her head. "Your ride is on his way," she says. Balvin opens his mouth to protest, but he thinks better of it.

"Okay," he says.


	4. Chapter 4

They sit on Mona’s front porch waiting for Maluma to arrive. Mona gives Santiago his blocks back, along with strict orders not to eat them. He plays happily on the ground, kicking the blocks and running unsteadily after them on his tiny legs.

Maluma pulls up and gets out of the car. "That’s the future of Colombia right there," he says. "World Cup winner twenty forty-six."

Mona smiles, standing up slowly and walking over to hug Maluma.

"Hola preciosa," he says. "You okay?"

"I’m ready to evict the tenant, but I’m fine, Juan. How are you?"

Maluma shrugs. "Spending a lot of time chasing down escapees." He glances over Mona’s shoulder to Balvin, still sitting on the porch.

"Good luck," Mona says. "Better you than me."

Balvin watches their exchange, struck by how familiar they are with each other. But what really startles him is when Santiago abandons his blocks, running as fast as he can over to Maluma and attaching himself to his leg.

"Waa!" he shrieks. "Tío waa!"

Balvin realizes abruptly that he’s trying to say "Tío Juan."

Maluma bends down and scoops him up, tossing him in the air. He yells happily, shaking the block he still has in his grubby little hand. Maluma sets him down after he almost gets knocked in the head.

Maluma leans in to kiss Mona on the cheek. "Thank you," he says. "We’ll get out of your hair now. Two babies are enough to take care of."

Balvin knows a cue when he hears it. He hugs Mona as tightly as he dares, thanking her as well. She squeezes his arm, telling him that everything is going to be fine, to have a little faith.

He promises to try, and then he gets into the passenger’s seat of Maluma’s car.

"Thanks for picking me up," he says as they pull away. "I lost my phone."

"I was worried about you," Maluma says, and Balvin looks away, guilty. "I’m glad you’re okay."

"I’m sorry," Balvin says.

"It’s fine," Maluma says, and for a moment, his voice is unbearably sad. But then he lightens his tone, saying, "you’re still hurt. I don’t know if I would do any better in your situation. Do whatever you think you need to do, even if that’s spending time alone with your ex-girlfriend."

"No," Balvin says quickly. "We’re not—"

Maluma smiles, shaking his head. "I know," he says. "I’m just joking."

Balvin smiles, small, and turns to look at Maluma. "Can you tell me something happy? A story or something?"

Maluma looks at him curiously, not answering for a moment. Then he says, "most of my happy stories are about you and me. Is that okay? Unless you want me to talk about horses."

"No," Balvin says, smiling a little bit bigger. "That’s fine."

Maluma tells him about the second trip they took to Iceland. He listens as Maluma talks about snow and ice and mountains. He pictures the scenery vividly, but he knows it’s not a real memory, just an amalgam of all the other cold places he’s been, all the Discovery Channel specials he’s watched. Then Maluma mentions a toboggan, and Balvin interrupts him.

"I dreamed about this," he says. "Yesterday, I mean."

Maluma looks at him sharply. "Yeah?"

"I was chasing you in a toboggan. I ran you over."

Maluma laughs, short and loud. "You never ran me over," he says. "But we did have a race. I won." He looks proud of himself.

Balvin laughs, too, but then his expression changes. "That wasn’t the only part of the dream, though," he says. Maluma stays quiet, waiting for him to continue. "I chased you off a mountain, and I landed with a baby in my arms. She wouldn’t stop screaming, and then I guess she ate me."

Spoken out loud, it seems much less scary than when he dreamed it. In fact, it's ridiculous, inane, and to his damaged mind, hilarious. He starts to chuckle, and then he’s full out laughing, leaning against the door of Maluma’s car, stomach shaking, and tears rolling down his eyes.

Maluma is unsure how to react at first, but he smiles at Balvin, who is hunched over, gasping for breath, trying to calm himself down.

"I'm sorry your baby ate you," Maluma says, perfectly deadpan, and that sets Balvin off again.

He eventually gets himself under control, and they're quiet the rest of the way, but it's a better quiet than they've had recently, not so fraught anymore.

Maluma pulls into the driveway and gets out of the car. He turns to ask if Balvin is hungry.

"You're always trying to feed me," Balvin says. "I thought you were my fiance, not my mom."

Maluma stops dead in his tracks and stares. "Do you remember?" he asks, and he's trying to control his excitement, but Balvin can see how his face lights up.

"No," Balvin says, and Maluma deflates just as quickly. "Sorry. I was just making a joke. Uh, Mona told me."

"It's fine," Maluma says. He turns away.

Balvin feels guilty. "I'm sorry," he says again. "That was a bad joke."

"It's fine," Maluma says again, but he picks up the pace, walking quickly towards the house.

Balvin catches up to him, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder before they reach the door. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asks.

"I didn't want to scare you. You seemed stressed out enough as it is."

"Oh," Balvin says, then, "you don't wear a ring. I didn't buy you one?" He drops his hand from Maluma's back, scratching behind his ear.

"No," Maluma says. They've reached the door, but he still hasn't unlocked it. Maluma looks at him for a moment before he continues, "you bought me a horse."

Balvin blinks, surprised, and then he breaks into a smile. "Of course."

"Do you want to come see?"

"Your horses?"

"Yeah."

Balvin shrugs and then nods. "Sure, why not?"

―

Balvin doesn’t know much about horses, but Maluma’s all seem very fancy.

He recognizes Hércules, the big black horse, from pictures Maluma has posted. But there are many others in the stables, too. They come to the front of their stalls to greet Maluma, tails swishing almost like dogs. He isn’t sure if that’s because they’re happy to see them, or just to keep the flies away.

Hércules sticks his head out, butting Maluma with his face. Maluma pats his nose.

"You've seen Hércules before, right?"

"Not in person," Balvin says. "Hello, Hércules." He reaches out tentatively towards Hércules' nose, and Hércules eyes him warily. Balvin decides he'd rather not sustain any more damage to his person and takes his hand back. He glances at Maluma, who is trying not to laugh at him.

"He won't bite you. Just be gentle. I forgot how jumpy you were before."

"I'm not jumpy," Balvin says, and then he jumps when Maluma reaches for his hand.

Maluma smirks at him. "Sure," he says. He guides Balvin's hand to Hércules' nose, and Balvin gives him a few cautious pets. "He knows who you are. But he can tell you're nervous."

Balvin doesn't say anything, just keeps petting Hércules. His nose is very soft. "Which one did I give you?" he asks eventually.

Maluma points to the horse in the next stall. He looks very similar to Hércules, just smaller. But he has the same regal air to him, the same imposing presence.

"Hilas," Maluma says, and there's a smile beginning to form around his eyes. Balvin makes a note to google the name later.

—

Dinner is less tense than the first night. Maluma orders sushi instead of cooking, and when he comes back from picking it up, he hands Balvin a new phone as well.

"Thanks," Balvin says.

Maluma just nods and starts unpacking their meal. It looks like a lot of food, but once they start eating, Maluma bullies him into eating the sushi "properly," and when Balvin starts eating each piece in one bite, dinner disappears pretty quickly.

"Look," Maluma says. "You pick it up and dab it in the soy sauce and then you eat the whole thing." He demonstrates, picking up a piece of otoro, flipping it over to dip, and then popping it into his mouth, smooth as ice. Balvin thought he was pretty decent with chopsticks, but Maluma is on an entirely different level.

"You are showing off," Balvin accuses.

"No," Maluma says, switching his chopsticks to his right hand and doing the same thing. "Now I’m showing off."

Balvin pokes him with the chopstick. Maluma pokes him back, but with better technique. Balvin just laughs.

When they’re done eating, Balvin throws away all the containers and goes to sit on the couch. Maluma looks at him, pleasantly surprised. He sits across from Balvin, waiting for him to speak.

Balvin says the first thing that comes to mind, "Mona's kid likes you better than he likes me."

Maluma bursts out laughing. "We play football together sometimes."

"He's two," Balvin says skeptically.

"Okay, we played football one time, and Mona said that's all he talked about for a week."

"Two. Two years old," Balvin repeats.

"Okay, I kicked the ball and he ran around and then fell over. What's your point, Jose?" Maluma's voice sharpens, and the levity they were feeling over dinner starts to fade. Balvin stares at his hands as he tries to get his thoughts together.

"Nothing. Just, he's _two,_ and you've been in his life long enough that he knows who you are and calls you Tío Juan. You have Mona's number. That's just... strange to me, I guess."

Maluma sighs. "I know all this is hard for you to accept."

"Yeah," Balvin says, voice a dull croak. "Yeah, it is."

"Why?" Maluma asks him, suddenly energized. Balvin doesn't like the energy, though. Maluma is looking at him intently, and he can feel how loaded the question is.

"Because none of this is what I want?"

Maluma presses his lips together, a flat, unhappy line. He doesn't speak.

"I want to have kids, too. I want a family. I don't understand why I would choose this for myself. Why I would choose you. No offense."

Maluma rolls his eyes. "It's not that complicated," he says. "I love you." Balvin flinches. Maluma's words feel like a blow to the head, a punch he sees coming but can't duck to avoid. "And you love me." That's a knife between his ribs, quick and quiet, so fast he doesn't realize what's happening until it's lodged in his chest, too deadly to pull out.

"I don't―"

Maluma cuts him off. "Don't say it." He looks very tired all of a sudden.

"I wasn't going to say I don't love you," Balvin says. "I just don't understand."

"Okay," Maluma says, and he seems inclined to leave it at that. But Balvin can't. If he can find the single loose end in all of this, maybe he can pull at it enough to make it unravel.

"How did we even get together?"

Maluma looks at him, unamused. "You kissed me at your sister's wedding."

"Why were you at my sister's wedding?"

"Rene invited me."

Balvin mulls this over. It seems plausible.

"Why was I kissing you?"

Maluma frowns. "Because you wanted to? How am I supposed to know?"

"I mean, what were the circumstances? How did this happen?"

"Technically," Maluma says, and Balvin seizes on the word. "Technically, it was the reception, not the wedding." Balvin's hopes die down.

"Okay," he says impatiently. "'Technically.' Go on."

"We all stayed at the same hotel. You were kind of drunk, like, as drunk as _you_ ever get. You had a lot of champagne."

Balvin's stomach starts to sink, the horrible feeling that Maluma is telling the truth weighing it down. He does drink champagne, occasionally. It's barely alcohol, more of a celebration than a beverage. Balvin prepares this argument internally but doesn’t voice it. Instead he stays quiet, waiting for the rest of the story.

"It was really late. Your sister and Rene had left for their honeymoon, and there were only a few people still hanging around. You wanted to go get something from your room, but you were being really obnoxious about it. So they pawned you off on me because we were friends. Maybe you don't remember, but we used to be friends, too." Maluma is being petulant, but Balvin can't really blame him.

"Yes, I know we were friends. I remember it, even."

"Mmhmm," Maluma says. "Anyway, I got your drunk ass to the room, and you never even got whatever it was you were supposed to be getting. You just told me I was really pretty. And then you kissed me."

"That's it?"

"Were you expecting something more romantic?"

"Yes?"

"It gets better. You ignored me for a month after that. We were supposed to do another song together, but you freaked out so badly it never happened. You must have pulled some serious strings to get out of doing it."

This all sounds alarming possible. Balvin frowns. "So how did we get from that to, uh, this?"

"You apologized."

There it is, his loose end. "Really?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I know it's hard to believe," Maluma says, pulling no punches. "But once upon a time, you went through some character development or whatever. I thought you were going to pretend it never happened. But you apologized and said you wanted to do it again. And, stupidly, I let you take me out."

"On a date."

"Yes, on a date. We went to the airport."

"The airport?" Balvin asks in disbelief.

Maluma shrugs. "You said you missed it. It was a fun date, actually. We put on disguises and tried to blend in with everyone else. You dyed your hair brown and wore clothes that fit."

Balvin laughs in spite of himself. "And what did you wear?"

"A hat. An old sweater. It wasn't really the clothes, though. If you don't act like you, no one has any reason to think that you are."

"How profound," Balvin says.

Maluma waves him off. "That was our first date. You invited me to your house for the second."

"Oh," says Balvin quietly, imagining where that might have led.

"We didn't," Maluma says, picking up immediately on his reaction. "Not for a long time. We took it really slow."

Balvin nods, thinking about all Maluma has told him. He's still not ready to believe it, but at least he knows the story now. "Thanks," he says. "For telling me this."

"Sure," Maluma says. He looks away, then back at him. "Look, you don't have to be afraid of me, okay? I'm fine being your, whatever, your platonic housemate. But this is new for me, too. I’m used to a different version of you. One that—"

"Yeah," Balvin cuts him off. "I know. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Maluma says, just like he does every time Balvin apologizes. "I just don't want you to feel weird. But I guess that's kind of inevitable."

"Yeah. But thanks, really. I think I needed to hear that."

"Okay," Maluma says, resigned. "You going to bed?"

Balvin nods, grateful to be given permission without having to ask for it. Maluma tells him to sleep well, and he nods.

Once in the room, he falls asleep quickly. His dreams are exhausting, scenes shifting deceitfully into each other without warning. When he wakes up, he doesn’t remember them at all.

—

Balvin gets used to living in Maluma’s house. He almost gets used to living in it with Maluma.

Their relationship is strange, simultaneously more and less intimate than it needs to be. Maluma falls somewhere between personal assistant and roommate, but all his interactions are tinged by their one-sided history that Balvin can’t ignore, try as he might.

They're not friends, not really, even though he tells himself that they are. The facade is fragile at best, though, and chock-full of holes at worst. Maluma still takes care of him, in sneaky ways after he realizes that Balvin is resistant to his outright displays of affection. Maluma stops trying to cook shared meals, but the refrigerator is always stocked with things Balvin likes to eat. He starts writing his schedule on a large calendar that he leaves in the kitchen, and, suspiciously, he always is free for Balvin’s appointments with the doctor. Maluma drives him to one of them, a frustrating meeting that yields no answers other than to keep waiting, and sits in the parking lot until it’s over. And when Balvin wakes up screaming, confused and scared in the middle of the night, Maluma is always there.

He tries to discourage Maluma from caring about him, first through extreme politeness, and then, when that doesn't work, through absenteeism. He spends all his time on his phone, only glancing up to register the coming and going of dogs, the rising and setting of the sun.

He messages Valentina a lot, and she always replies, but the time between responses starts to grow longer and longer. While he waits, he goes through the rest of his notifications, finally getting back to everyone who asked about him while he was in the hospital. The conversation always dies out eventually, though, after a brief back and forth that follows the same pattern: good to hear from you, glad you're doing better, let's catch up, end.

When he exhausts his virtual contacts, he starts spending most of his time with Mona, under the guise of helping her around the house as she reaches her last month of pregnancy. She never tells him to go away, but she also doesn't ever invite him over, either. He figures that if she ever truly gets tired of him, she'll tell him to fuck off, and then he'll have to find somewhere else to hide during the day.

If Maluma is bothered by all of this, he doesn't say anything. Balvin comes back to the house one day in an Uber to find him on the balcony, smoking a cigarette and staring angrily at the trees, but he puts it out when he notices Balvin's arrival, flicking the butt over the edge. They don't talk about it.

They don’t talk about personal things anymore, scratching no deeper than how bad his headache is, or if he wants to rewatch _Narcos_ and complain about Wagner Moura. He doesn't, and Maluma lets it go.

In February, he sits Maluma down to seriously consider what they’re going to do if his memory doesn’t come back. Maluma won’t hear it. It’s the first time he’s refused to answer questions, only saying to be patient, keep waiting.

"But what if things don't go back to normal?" Balvin asks him.

"They will," Maluma says. "They have to."

"But what if they don't? Do you want to stay like this forever?"

Maluma sighs, eyes closed. He still doesn't answer the question.

"I'm on good terms with most of my exes, but I don't live with them, usually," Balvin says. "Do you really—"

"I'm not your ex," Maluma interrupts him, glaring. "Not yet, anyway."


	5. Chapter 5

At ten in the morning on Valentine's Day, Mona goes into labor.

Balvin, already at her house, drives her to the hospital. He tries to help her into and out of the car, but she waves him off, saying she’s fine. When they get there, he yells for help, and she shushes him, speaking calmly with the staff. They start to get her room ready, and Mona sits patiently in a wheelchair while Balvin paces around. When they call her name, Balvin takes Santiago’s hand, telling him not to worry as a nurse wheels Mona off to the delivery room. He seems unaffected, more interested in the vending machines in the lobby than the arrival of his new sibling. Balvin buys him snacks while they wait for Santiago Sr. to arrive from work.

He does, quickly, and thanks Balvin for driving Mona. Then he and Santiago Jr. disappear into the room. Balvin almost follows them, but he realizes it’s not his place. He makes an abrupt turn in the hallway and goes back to the lobby, sitting in an empty chair. The receptionist notices him.

“You can go into the room,” the receptionist says, “if you’re family.”

He shakes his head, and the receptionist looks at him strangely before shrugging and going back to the computer.

He stands up, walking away from the lobby but not towards the exit. He thinks about going upstairs to shake down Dr. Espinosa for more and better answers about his amnesia, but he decides against it as he’s pressing the elevator button. The door opens up, and he waits until all the people have filed out before turning around and walking back to the parking lot. He sits in his car for half an hour before he finally turns it on.

He drives back to Maluma's house and finds it empty. There's a note on the kitchen calendar.

_I'm in Miami, back in a few days, sorry. I postponed the trip too many times, and they wouldn't let me out of it anymore. Take care of the dogs, don't worry about the horses._

_PD: Happy anniversary._

Balvin reads the note again and tries to feel something other than tired. His headache is lurking around the edges of his skull, threatening to strike. He takes a handful of painkillers and throws the note in the trash, then goes and sits outside on the patio with Felicidad, petting her neck and talking out loud.

"I should leave, right?" he asks. "This isn't fair to either of us."

Felicidad does not reply, though she wags her tail against the ground.

"I should just pack my stuff up and go. It would be easier that way."

She sighs, and Balvin doesn't know if that's agreement or disagreement.

"Would you miss having all these friends around? I could get another dog. You'd still have Paz. And Enzo."

Paz comes up to them, hearing her name called. She lies down beside Felicidad, and he pets her ears, too. "What do you think?"

Neither offers any insight into his situation, but the fact that they are congregating in one place means that the rest follow suit, and soon he finds himself surrounded by eight dogs, trying to pet them all equally. He does his best, then stands up and brushes the fur off his clothes. He checks his phone for an update from Mona. Nothing.

He goes and sits by the pool, letting the sun shine on him as he closes his eyes and tries to meditate, but he's too distracted to achieve any inner peace. His thoughts bounce around, ricocheting off each other until he gives up.

He stands up, takes off his shirt and pants, and dives in the water, sinking to the bottom of the pool and sitting for as long as he can hold his breath. Underwater, he opens his eyes, letting the chlorine sting him, and surveys the turquoise world around him.

When his lungs start to scream, he rises slowly to the top and starts to swim laps. He's not the best swimmer, technique clumsy and inefficient, but he keeps at it until he finds some kind of rhythm, starts to remember the lessons he had as a child. He swims until he tires himself out, then floats face down, willing himself to overcome the panic that creeps up on him. The water on his face is calming, but he can’t breathe, so he flips onto his back and stares directly at the sun. When he's mostly blind, he climbs out of the pool, lying down on the ground. The concrete is hard against his body, but he closes his eyes and drifts off anyway.

He wakes up an undetermined amount of time later, long enough that his skin is burnt and his underwear is dry. He pulls his clothes back on, then goes into Maluma’s kitchen and rummages around for something to eat. He eats directly out of the takeout box from yesterday, then goes back outside for his phone when he realizes he left it by the pool.

There are six photos waiting for him from a number saved as Santiago. Mona smiles at the camera, holding her newborn son. His eyes are closed, and his face is still red and shriveled. Santiago Jr. looks at his baby brother, gently touching his blanket. Then there are a few shots of the whole family, beaming, exhausted.

The accompanying message says,

 _Valentino Alexis Jaramillo Osorio, 3,8 kg, 14 de febrero 2025. Mamá e hijo están perfectos, descansando con la familia_ **_♡_ **

Balvin stares blankly at the ground until his vision starts to blur. Then he sends Mona a quick message congratulating her. She doesn't reply. He considers calling Maluma about the baby, but he might have already gotten the same message. He sends one line wishing Maluma a safe trip instead.

He goes back inside and sits on the sofa, unsure of what to do with himself. He turns the TV on and immediately pulls his phone out as well, looking for a distraction from the feelings he can't define. There's nothing good on either the TV or the internet, and eventually, he turns everything off, sitting in the living room alone as the sun starts to set. He lets the room darken completely before going downstairs.

He gets on Maluma's treadmill barefoot and sprints, running as fast as the machine will go. He runs until he nearly missteps, ankle wobbling dangerously, then hops onto the sides, waiting to catch his breath as the belt races past beneath him. He does this until he thinks he might throw up, then waits ten minutes and does it again. By the time he is done, he’s covered in sweat, legs shaking and cramping. He collapses next to the treadmill, eyes screwed shut against the pain. When he opens them again, Paulo Dybala’s Juventus jersey stares him in the face.

Balvin groans, then slowly picks himself up off the floor. His legs nearly give out under him, but he manages to drag his body over to the elevator and press the button. Once upstairs, he pours himself into the bathtub, clothes still on, and lets the water fall on his head. He upends a shampoo bottle haphazardly over himself and hopes that will do the trick.

He leaves his wet clothes in the bathroom, dives headfirst into the bed, and passes out.

—

Balvin sits bolt upright, startled awake. He reaches out beside him, feeling for Maluma. When his fingers touch nothing but slightly damp sheets, he remembers.

Then he _remembers._

He leaps out of bed and grabs at his clothes one-handed, something, anything, just to get dressed and get out of the house. With the other hand, he furiously dials his pilot. The phone goes to voicemail once, twice, three times. He yells in frustration, and his dogs come running to investigate.

He tries one more time, and when the phone connects, his heart is in his throat as he says, "I’m so sorry. It’s an emergency. I need to go to Miami."

"Now?" the pilot asks him, voice still creaky with sleep. Balvin looks at the clock. It's four in the morning.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

There's something like agreement, or maybe just resignation, on the other end of the line, but that's all he needs. He runs out the door to his car, pedal to the floor as he makes a mad dash to the airport.

They take off from Medellín at five, and by eight, Balvin is barging into Enterprise, throwing money at the clerk for a car available immediately. There isn't anyone else in line, fortunately, and after scrawling his name over a couple of forms, he grabs the keys and peels out of the parking lot, pushing the Fiat as fast as it will possibly go, which is not very, considering it’s only slightly larger than a golf cart.

He ducks the Miami traffic, trying to remember all shortcuts and workarounds through little neighborhoods, suddenly grateful that his tiny vehicle will fit between the lines of parked cars on either side of the street. He makes it to North Beach in record time, leaves the car parked illegally in a loading zone, and sprints up the stairs, too impatient to wait for the elevator.

He lets himself into the apartment, and Maluma is not there. For the first time in many hours, he stops moving. He falls into a chair, breathless, and starts to weigh his options.

He should wait, right where he is, for Maluma to come back, not take any risks that mean he might miss him. But he feels the need to bring some kind of tangible apology, flowers or diamonds or purebred horses, the kind of thing people buy when they fuck up royally. He splits the difference by looking up florists on his phone, ordering the largest, fanciest bouquet he can get delivered by the afternoon.

An hour passes, and Maluma still hasn't appeared. Balvin is reluctant to move from his spot near the door, but he’s starting to feel restless, anxiety scratching under the surface of his skin. He wants to get up, but he can’t, but if he just did it quickly, but he can’t.

His indecision roots him in place, confines him to the chair as he watches his window of opportunity shrink away, minute by minute. All he wants to do is get up, go for a walk or take a shower, something to clear his head. But he can’t risk not being there when Maluma gets home.

Another half an hour goes by, and Balvin stands up, pacing around the entryway. He realizes he has two different shoes on, both white sneakers, but one is Nike and the other Balenciaga. He looks down at his shirt. It’s inside out.

He hopes Maluma is having a lunch meeting because he can’t sit still any longer. He walks quickly to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks terrible, bags under his eyes, hair sticking out funny from where he slept on it wet, a certain manic aura about him radiating chaos and desperation.

He strips off all his mismatched clothes and showers, scrubbing at his eyes in an attempt to wash the dark circles away. He goes into the bedroom, pulling clothes out of the drawer. He only keeps basics here, but putting on real pants and a shirt makes him feel a lot more put together, like he has an actual plan to unfuck his life, not just a snap decision made in the middle of the night.

Then he hears the door opening, and his brain reverts right back into panic mode, careening two hundred kilometers an hour with no brakes and no steering wheel and certainly no plan.

Balvin runs to the door, still barefoot, still with his hair wet, and Maluma drops his phone in shock. Balvin can just barely hear whoever is on the line yelling "hello, hello?" when he launches himself at Maluma.

He contemplated, on the flight over, what he’d say in this moment. He wrote some lines, trying to find the words to express everything he feels, all his guilt and gratitude, embarrassment and elation. But capturing his feelings on paper felt wrong, too much like writing lyrics, worried about the cadence and the connotation of every word he chose; too much poetry, not enough humanity. He tore up the sheet and sat with his head in his hands, hoping the right words would come when he needed them.

They don’t.

Balvin throws himself at Maluma and hugs him so hard he thinks he might tear the seams of his shirt or maybe his skin. And if he did, if his sides split open and his organs tumbled out onto the floor, he’d still be holding Maluma, the bare bones of his skeleton frozen in place, never letting go.

Maluma reciprocates, arms wrapped tight around him, and the touch reminds him that he is not a skeleton yet, that he is still whole. He buries his face in the crook of Maluma’s neck and cries, unleashing a torrent of unintelligible words and tears. Maluma doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to understand, although he does, he knows. He just stands there, supporting both of their weight until Balvin manages full sentences again.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing he says, and then, "I love you."

"You're back," Maluma says, and the relief in his voice is so heavy it knocks him down. They sink to the floor, leaning against each other. Balvin curls up against Maluma's chest, still half-crying, and Maluma holds him close.

"I'm so, so, so sorry. I didn't mean—"

Maluma cuts him off. "It doesn't matter. You're back. That's all I care about." He kisses the top of Balvin's head, and he's crying, too. Balvin can feel the tears land in his hair.

"But I’m sorry. I was terrible to you—"

Maluma doesn’t want to hear it. He kisses Balvin quiet, and even though it’s not a very nice kiss, both of them still covered in tears, noses running, feeling too warm and too raw, Balvin closes his eyes and lets himself forget for a moment. It’s been a month and six years since he kissed Maluma. It’s wonderful to do it again.

They break apart, and Balvin tries to apologize again.

"It’s not your fault," Maluma says before he can get going. He pulls Balvin back in, keeping him close with his arms around his waist. "That wasn’t you. Or that was you with brain damage. I can’t be mad at you for that."

Balvin tries to move away. Maluma doesn’t let him. "You should be. I was going to leave. I was just going to sneak away while you were gone."

"But you didn’t. You came back to me."

"Yeah, but—" he starts, and Maluma claps a hand over his mouth.

"Stop. It’s not your fault. None of it is your fault. You had _brain damage."_

Balvin tries to keep arguing, but Maluma just keeps his hand over his mouth. When he eventually quiets down, Maluma carefully takes his hand away.

"I—"

Maluma slaps his hand right back in place. Balvin makes a noise of frustration, then licks Maluma’s palm, as sloppily as he can manage. Maluma rolls his eyes.

"You really thought," he says, shaking his head. "It’s gonna take more than that."

Balvin tries to bite him.

"Okay, easy, killer," Maluma says, and he lets Balvin speak.

"I love you, _andimsorry."_ Balvin says the last bit in a rush, then kisses Maluma again before he can protest.

It's a better kiss than before. Desire rips through him like a current, and he's struck by the sudden intensity of how much he _wants_. They've moved beyond comfort. Balvin could eat him alive.

Balvin kisses possessively, consumingly, as if Maluma was the mask hanging from the ceiling of a doomed airplane, and he was desperate for one last breath of oxygen before they go down. Balvin pulls him in, arms and legs wrapped around him, holding on for dear life. With their clothes still on, it's not physically possible to get closer than they are, but that doesn't stop him from trying.

"Bedroom," Maluma says when he gets a moment to breathe. "Bedroom, now."

Balvin half-carries, half-drags him off in a primitive, animal way, tearing at his clothes as they go. He throws him on the bed and starts to get undressed himself. He pauses, though, taking in the sight. Maluma's face is flushed, hair a mess. His lips are swollen, slightly parted, and he bites one as he watches Balvin strip.

"Come here," he says. "I need you."

Balvin climbs on top of Maluma. He can feel all the places where their skin is touching, from their mouths to their chests to their legs tangled together, and it's still not enough.

"Fuck me," he says, and Maluma says, "yes."

—

They don’t leave the bed the rest of the day except once, when the doorbell rings. Maluma goes to see who it is, and he comes back with an obnoxiously large arrangement of roses.

Balvin laughs as he struggles to get them through the door to the bedroom.

"There," Maluma says, setting the flowers down on the dresser. "That’s your apology. I accept."

"I'm sorry," Balvin says again for good measure.

Maluma shakes his head, but he doesn't say anything. He climbs back into the bed, lying against Balvin's chest. Balvin runs his fingers through Maluma’s hair, trying to style it back into some semblance of what it looked like before. He isn't too successful. He kisses the top of Maluma's head instead.

"I missed you so much," Maluma says.

Balvin sighs. He almost apologizes again, but he just says, "I missed you, too. Thank you for putting up with me."

"Always."

Balvin closes his eyes, staying quiet for a moment, enjoying the return to normalcy. He squeezes Maluma, kisses down the side of his face to his neck. Maluma squirms, and Balvin stops, resting his chin on Maluma's shoulder. Into Maluma's ear, he says, "happy late anniversary."

Maluma turns to smile at him. "Happy late anniversary."

"Maybe we should give ourselves a new anniversary," Balvin says, glancing away briefly before looking back at Maluma. "Valentine's Day is kind of cliche, isn't it?"

Maluma breaks into an even bigger smile. "What day did you have in mind?"

—

"Tío Juan," Samantha says, pulling on Maluma's sleeve. "Can you unlock Tío Jose's phone? I want to see the pictures."

Maluma laughs. "He can unlock it for you."

"No, he can't," Samantha insists. "Remember, we changed it?"

"We changed it back," Balvin says.

"You're no fun," Samantha says. "You're old and boring now that you're married."

"Come on, Samy," Balvin says. "It's been three hours. We can't be that different."

"Yes, you are," she says, and then she brightens up. “Wait, I know your password, never mind.”

She types two zero zero nine and scrolls through Balvin’s pictures.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” he says.

Samantha rolls her eyes. “It’s not like it’s hard, Tío Jose. It’s always your anniversary. Whatever, I’m going to see the baby.” She hands Balvin his phone back and runs off in the direction of Mona and her kids.

Maluma turns to him. "We're not old and boring."

"No," Balvin agrees. "We're still young and cool."

They giggle at each other. “Maybe we are old and boring.”

Balvin shrugs. “As long as I get old with you.”

Maluma smiles at him and then leans in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _El día del amor y la amistad_ (literally "the day of love and friendship"), or Colombian Valentine's Day is celebrated on the third Saturday of September. In 2025, that will be the twentieth.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [song](https://open.spotify.com/track/5bgwqaRSS3M8WHWruHgSL5?autoplay=true) about teenagers, this [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/265640) about amnesia, this [tweet](https://twitter.com/0bbel/status/1218021498646122496?s=20) about my OTP, and a general desire to not think about the year 2020 more than strictly necessary.


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